Overlook
by kLyn
Summary: What if Michael had taken off after his last confrontation with Hank, never to return to Roswell? An unexpected meeting leads to new possibilities. M/M, 1/1


  
  
  


**Overlook**  
by kLyn 

WRITTEN: May, 2003  
  
RATING: PG-13  
  
CATEGORY: Michael/Maria  
  
SUMMARY: What if Michael had taken off after his last confrontation with Hank, never to return to Roswell? An unexpected meeting leads to new possibilities.  
  
SPOILERS: Up through 'Independence Day', season one. The wonderful scene where Michael comes to Maria for comfort did not take place.  
  
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Michael, Maria, or any of the Roswell crew. They belong to Jason Katims and Melinda Metz.  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is my first story that could even remotely be considered a song fic. It wasn't exactly inspired by a song, but while I was writing it I did listen to one particular song, and it changed the way I shaped the story. All lyrics are from 'I'd Give It All For You' from Jason Robert Brown's musical, _Songs for a New World_, a show (and CD) I highly recommend to anyone with an interest in musical theatre.  
  
  
~~~~~  


There was near silence that morning. Only the soft brush of the wind across the small grassy patch, a few insects buzzing by, and the rare sound of a vehicle on the little-traveled highway. And the faint breathing of the girl who sat, staring out at the valley that stretched out below her. 

Off in the distance, a motor could be heard, racing nearer, nearer. A motorcycle engine. It passed quickly, no doubt breaking the speed limit in a big way. The still, small place waited for the sound to disappear into the distance. 

It didn't. A moment later, the engine grew louder again; the motorcycle had turned around and, driving carelessly up the wrong side of the road, it backtracked until it reached the pull-off marked by the faded 'Scenic View' sign. It paused there for a moment, almost hesitantly, then pulled in and stopped next to the red Jetta. The motor quieted. 

A figure--tall, sturdy--swung off the machine and crunched across the gravel path towards the picnic bench. The girl didn't bother to turn around; she just spoke. 

"Look, I was enjoying the solitude here, so buzz off." Her words rang through the small grassy area. 

But the rider didn't buzz off. Instead, the helmet was unbuckled and pulled off, revealing a chiseled face and long sap-brown hair. 

"Hey," he said.  
  
~~~~~  


_I had a house while you were gone.  
The week after you left me,  
I found a couple acres near Severna Park.  
I had a house while you were gone:  
A house with silver shutters,  
and a driveway laid in marble,  
and thousands of rooms to fill,  
and miles of space to fly...  
and I tried to believe it.  
It was better without you,  
I was safer alone..._

Maria stiffened at that voice. So familiar, although she hadn't heard it in--what, five years? A little gravelly, as if unused, but unmistakable. 

"Michael." 

She turned to see him standing there, motorcycle helmet in his hands. He looked tired, his face lined. Older. And his hair--where were the disheveled spikes? It was long, hanging past his collar, so different. His clothing hadn't changed much, though. Still the jeans and t-shirt, still the jacket and dusty boots... 

She was staring. 

"It figures, with a whole entire planet to choose from, I'd pick the place where I'd run into you," she said. Even to her own ears it sounded sulky, and she shook her head. "I didn't really mean that." 

"Yeah?" he said doubtfully. 

"Yeah," she echoed, then sighed. "So how've you been?" 

He sat next to her on the top of the picnic table as if he had every right to, but didn't really answer. He just shrugged. Fine. If that was the way he wanted it, then fine. 

"You could have called, you know. Or sent a few post cards or something. It really tore up Max and Isabel when you left." It had done the same for her, sent her spiraling into a manic whirlwind of dating and activity, school and music and guys, but never really settling on any one thing. Or on any one person. She'd always been held back by the memory of what couldn't even be called a relationship, really, just the far-off, remote possibility of one. But she'd never been able to forget his touch, the smoldering fire in his eyes, the intensity of his kisses. 

It was not something she intended for him ever to find out. 

She glanced to her left. Michael was staring down at the helmet in his hands. She frowned. "Michael, they were your _friends_. You owed them that much." 

He gave a single, mirthless bark of laughter. "I know." 

"You know? So why the disappearing act? How could you just abandon them? They were like your family!" Her voice rose in pitch, and she became more agitated, amazed that she could still feel this upset about something that happened so long ago. "Why did you leave?" she cried out. 

He looked at her, doubt and surprise in his eyes. "They...they didn't tell you?" 

"Tell me what, Michael? All I know is that you left town, without a word to--to anyone but Isabel and Max. The Sheriff came looking for you after Hank disappeared--" 

"Hank what?" he blurted. 

"He disappeared for a while, right when you did, but then he turned up later. He got a job out of town or something, I don't know exactly. But nobody could find you." 

Michael closed his eyes for a moment, and opened his mouth once or twice as if to speak. Then he shook his head; what he was shaking off, Maria didn't know exactly. 

"So, uh..." he finally said, still not answering her question. "Max, Isabel...how are they?" 

"How do you think they are?" she snapped. She almost regretted it at his barely suppressed flinch. In a calmer tone, she went on, "They're good, actually. They're both in college now. Max and Liz are together, and so are Isabel and Alex." 

"Alex?" he said, clearly startled. "Alex...Alex Whitman?" 

She was shocked that he could even remember Alex's surname. "That's right." 

He reached up to scratch bemusedly at one eyebrow. It was a gesture she found quite familiar, and a pang ran through her. 

"I just...it's hard to picture them together," was all he said. 

"I know. But they're good together, really good. He helps her step down from her pedestal once in a while, you know?" 

He nodded, accepting this at face value. "And you? How are you?" he said finally, so quiet she could barely hear it. 

"Oh, I'm great," she said breezily. "Things have been great for me."  
  
~~~~~  


_No, I'd give it all for you,  
I'd give it all for you by my side once more.  
Oh, I'd give it all for you.  
I'd give it all to hold you again,  
to feel I'm completed,  
to know there and then  
that all that I needed  
was you to fight the fear...  
And now you're here._

"Well, more than great, actually," she corrected herself with an airy wave of her hands. "Wonderful, fabulous, couldn't be better..." 

Michael didn't exactly tune her out, but he wasn't giving her all his attention, either. He was still in too much shock at seeing not just a familiar face, but _her_ face. Out in the middle of nowhere. He'd seen the Jetta--a little shabbier than it had been five years ago, but still recognizable--as he rode past the scenic overlook. He hadn't consciously chosen to do it, but somehow he'd found himself turning around in the middle of the empty stretch of road and heading back towards it, as if the red metal of the car was a magnet. He never stopped to consider that it might be a different Jetta, that someone else might be driving it. He'd just known. 

It was Maria. 

She didn't look any different. Yes, there were minor changes: she'd let her hair grow out past her shoulders, and it danced in the breeze; he thought her clothes were a little different, too, not that he was any expert on style. But she still had the same hazel green eyes, the same plump lower lip, and as he sat next to her a light breeze wafted a familiar fragrance past his nose. He didn't know exactly what it was--something spicy and floral at the same time--but it was unmistakable. 

For a moment there, letting that scent wash over him, he felt as close as he'd ever come to tears. But he'd never given in to them before; he wasn't about to start now. He wasn't entirely sure he knew how. 

"...and I decided to go for a business degree, so I could help run the store, but I was really interested in music, you know, ever since I started singing with Alex's band." She caught herself, and added, "Or wait, was that after you left? I can't keep it straight." 

Of course she couldn't. He hadn't expected his leaving to have any impact on anyone, except for Max and Isabel. And they had each other; they would've gotten over it in time. But even if they hadn't, he still would have had to go. Staying one day longer--one hour longer--would have been unbearable. 

So he'd gone. 

She was looking at him like she expected a response. "What?" he blurted. 

One of her delicately arched eyebrows rose. "I asked if you left before or after I joined The Whits." 

"Oh," he said. "After, I think." He didn't remember ever hearing them, but he'd heard _of_ them. Isabel had wanted to go to some concert, he thought, but he'd pulled her off to do...yeah, to try and send a message to the other alien, to Nasedo. Which had proved to be a waste of time. He should have just gone to the concert; he would have at least had the memory of it. "So things have been going good for you, huh?" 

"They have." 

"And Max and Isabel? Any...any more problems with the Sheriff or the FBI or anything?" 

"Nothing we couldn't handle." 

"Oh. That's...that's good." He had known they would be fine without him. Better off, even. 

"Yeah. Basically, Max put a moratorium on using powers except for self-defense. He and Isabel went back to acting pretty much like regular teenagers. We never saw Topolsky again, or got any other signs the FBI was still watching. And the Sheriff hassled Max a couple more times, but then Kyle got smashed up pretty badly in a car accident, so that kind of took the Sheriff's attention away, you know? So things were pretty calm after a while." 

"Did they ever..." Michael hesitated, not sure if he really could bear to know. "Did they ever find out any more about us? Why we're here or anything?" 

Maria shook her head. "I don't think they even looked." 

Michael felt himself reeling from that shock. Sure, Max had said the search for their origins meant nothing without Michael, and he'd given him everything connected with that search. Michael had it still, carefully packed into the bottom of one of the cycle's saddlebags where he never had to see it. But to give up completely--to stop looking--the idea overwhelmed him. Even though Max and Isabel clung with fierce passion to their perfect, normal-seeming family lives, how could they just give up on the search? 

Then again, he had. 

Maria turned and gazed at him, an expression he couldn't quite read in her eyes. "What about you, Michael? Did you find what you were looking for?"  
  
~~~~~  


_I took a trip while I was gone.  
I cashed in all my savings and bought an El Dorado,  
drove to Tennessee.  
I took a trip while I was gone.  
I drove across the country  
and I stopped at lots of diners  
and stared at a million stars,  
and thought I could touch the sky...  
And I tried to believe it.  
It was better without you.  
I was finally free..._

What he'd been looking for. 

How could he answer, when he didn't even know what that was? 

He hadn't been looking for anything, not really. He'd been running away. Away, like a coward. Not away from Hank's brutality, but away from a lack of it. What little foundation he'd had had been taken away once Hank had seen him for the freak he was, and without that foundation, Michael had nothing. At least with the flying fists and the insults, with Hank's alcohol-induced binges of violence, Michael had known what to expect. In a sick way, he could almost count on it. 

And without that, what did he have? 

Nothing. 

Or so he'd thought then. That was before the reality of an entirely unconnected life hit him. Now he moved from place to place, never staying longer than a few weeks, maybe a couple of months, before moving on. No ties, no friends, no goals; nothing other than a dull wish to find someplace better. Someplace where he could rest. 

He avoided big towns where he might most easily hide because the lights hid the stars, and they were the one thing he still had. Every night he could, he stayed up, searching the skies for something--a jolt of recognition, a sign, perhaps; he wasn't sure exactly what. But it was the one thing in the press of lonely days that he looked forward to. He knew that somewhere Max and Isabel were searching the same stars. 

There was one other thing he did, although he couldn't say he looked forward to it. Every time he could afford it, he'd eat at a diner. He'd lost count of how many different diners he'd eaten in, how many overcooked burgers and greasy fries he'd consumed. But he always found his feet guiding him there, and he would sit, trying to pretend the waitresses wore silver aprons and antennae, that if he looked across the room he'd see a familiar face. Isabel, Max...Maria...even Liz Parker. 

Of course, he never did. 

He was alone, caught in a rudderless sea where the current constantly changed, taking him to other places but going nowhere. He'd found nothing. He was barely living. 

"I survived." That was about all he could say.  
  
~~~~~  


_No, I'd give it all for you.  
I'd give it all for you by my side once more.  
Oh, I'd give it all for you.  
I'd give it 'cause the mountains I climb  
get higher and higher.  
I'm running from time  
and walking through fire,  
and dreams just don't come true...  
But now there's you._

"Oh," Maria said, startled by the bluntness of his tone. Not fear, not sarcasm, not even a threat; his voice had a blank detachment about it she'd never heard from him before, not even that night at the old soap factory when he'd blown her off and dented, if not broken, her heart. "Well...well, you found a shiny new motorcycle," she added, then could have kicked herself. Way to go, Maria. Just brilliant. 

It didn't seem to bother Michael, though; in fact, he seemed rather relieved to have a different topic of conversation. "It's not new," he said. "I fixed it up." 

"Oh," Maria said again. "So your powers are working?" 

"No. I learned how to do it by hand." 

Maria turned to look at the machine in question. It glistened in the sun, shining black with a hint of deep turquoise, or maybe it was deep turquoise with a hint of black? Well, whichever, it looked polished, cared for...almost pristine. "You learned pretty good." 

Michael just shrugged, not bothering to look back at the cycle. "It was something to do." 

"It must have taken hours." 

Another shrug. 

"So do you work at a garage, then?" she asked. 

He shook his head. Really, getting information from Michael was worse than pulling teeth. It was practically impossible. Luckily for her, she had long since given up believing anything was truly, one hundred percent impossible. If aliens were real--and they were; case in point, the one sitting right next to her--then who was to say anything and everything else couldn't be, too? 

"Come on, Michael, give. What do you do? Where do you live? Where did you learn to fix motorcycles, considering the mess you made of the Jetta's engine? Enquiring minds want to know." 

"I tend bar, mostly." 

Well, that was something. Although it wasn't exactly the profession she would have thought of for Michael, given his genes. "How'd you learn that? I thought you aliens couldn't drink." And some very fine concoctions they missed out on, too. 

"We can't. Just...call it a legacy from Hank." When she looked at him, puzzled, he unbent enough to explain, "I learned how to mix drinks before I started junior high. I've been doing it pretty much since I left Roswell." 

"Oh," she said, then wrinkled her nose up and objected, "Wait. You couldn't tend bar; you were underage." 

"Fake ID." 

Right. Well, he'd been tall enough--and built enough, god knows--to pass as twenty-one at sixteen. Actually, if you counted the years out of the pod, he'd only been what, ten or eleven? Because if you counted the pod years, then he'd be over fifty, and she just _couldn't_ be attracted to an old guy, not matter how sexy-- 

Wait. She was _not_ attracted to Michael. He was unreliable, unfeeling, and he certainly wasn't part of her life. She didn't care how sexy he was, what with the worn leather jacket and the day-old growth of beard and the great butt and why couldn't she just fall for a nice, uncomplicated human guy? God knows she'd tried hard enough. 

"So you're a bartender," she said, trying to drag her mind away from any further thinking in that direction. "What bar?" 

"No one bar in particular. I move around a lot." 

"And currently?" 

"Between jobs." 

Ah. "Between homes, too?" 

Michael's jaw tightened. She must have struck a nerve. "Yeah," he said, not looking in her direction. 

"Where are you headed, then?" 

"Don't know." He sat silently for a moment, then turned back to her. "What about you?" 

"What about me?" 

"What are you doing sitting at a scenic overlook in the middle of nowhere? Why aren't you off living your great, wonderful, fabulous life?"  
  
~~~~~  


_God knows it's easy to hide.  
Easy to hide from the things that you feel,  
and harder to blindly trust what you don't understand.  
God knows it's easy to run.  
Easy to run from the people you love,  
and harder to stand and fight for the things you believe._

She gazed out across the vista below them, her eyes suddenly burning. "My mother died." 

There was silence from her companion. She shouldn't have been surprised; he never was much of a talker at the best of times. 

"How?" he asked finally. 

"Breast cancer." It felt good to come out and say it. "My mother died of breast cancer." 

"When?" 

"Eight months ago." 

Michael's voice was low as he whispered, "I'm sorry." It was the most emotion she'd felt from him during this whole, bizarre conversation. 

"Thank you." 

More silence; then he asked, hesitantly, "Are you okay?" 

"No," she admitted for the first time in months. "I am not okay." She'd tried so hard to be okay, to get on with things. And she'd had wonderful friends to help her through it; they'd all rallied around her. After a while, they'd gone back to school, and so had she. They called, emailed, even visited. After a while longer, she thought she was supposed to be able to deal with things, so she faked it when she couldn't. She pretended she was happy, pretended she 'd gotten over it, pretended she felt like she had a reason to get up in the morning. 

"I can remember everybody telling me it was okay," she said slowly. "Mom was out of pain, in a better place. That I should trust in that." She let out a breath of air that approximated half a laugh. "I didn't want her to be in pain, of course I didn't. But how can I just accept that she's gone? I don't understand it; I don't know why she was taken away." Why everyone was taken--or went--away. 

She looked over at Michael. He'd dropped the helmet on the ground and was clenching his hands tightly together. His knuckles were white, she noticed idly, but the two silver rings he'd always worn were gone. One fingernail was cut almost to the quick, and it was something about that sight that let her pour out all her grief. They were rough hands, sturdy, but for just this little while at least, she knew they would catch her. Steady her. 

"And I got so I couldn't see straight, but everybody expected me to be perky, crazy Maria, with the wild schemes and enough energy and enthusiasm to make them work. They didn't come out and say it, but I know they were thinking it. They had to have been; _I_ was thinking it. And I don't know how to do that anymore, Michael, I don't know how to hide all this stuff inside me. So I ran," she confessed. "I said goodbye to everyone, but I ran." 

"You're one up on me, then," Michael said. "I didn't say goodbye. Not to everyone."  
  
~~~~~  


_Nothing about us was perfect or clear,  
but when Paradise calls me, I'd rather be here.  
There's something between us that nobody else needs to see...  
There were oceans to cross...  
There were mountains to conquer...  
and I stood on the shore...  
and I stood on the cliff.  
And the second before I jumped,  
I knew where I needed to be!_

It wasn't meant to be funny, but Maria laughed. For a moment, she couldn't manage to talk, and Michael suspected her hilarity was more about a release of pent-up emotion than humor. A part of him wanted to take off, to not deal with the way her pained laughter ate at his stomach. He hadn't been this close to anyone else's emotion in five years, maybe longer. The larger part of him--he didn't know whether or not it was the smarter part--insisted he not lose out on a second of it. Not before he had to. 

He sat, not moving. 

"No, you didn't," Maria said when her sobs of laughter had come under control again. She took a deep breath. "Why didn't you?" 

He hesitated, not sure how to put it into words. She took his silence for refusal, not inability, and began to rise from her seat on the weathered table top. "Fine," she said harshly. "It was...well, not exactly _nice_ seeing you again, Michael. More like interesting." 

"Don't!" he protested, his voice rough, as he reached out with both hands to hold her there. It only took one touch, and he felt as though his fingertips were burning. He snatched his hands back, but silently begged her not to go. Not yet. 

Somehow it worked; she sat again. 

"Things..." He cleared his throat. "Some things happened back then," he ground out. "I couldn't...I couldn't deal with it, okay? And I couldn't deal with Max and Iz knowing about it, and..." He trailed off and sat for a moment, hating his halting tongue, hating his failure, before summoning what little dregs of courage he had. "And I didn't have anyplace else to go." 

Her expression clouded over. "Michael, you could have come to me." 

"No," he said as carefully as he could manage, "I couldn't." He saw the hurt on her face, and rushed on, trying to explain. "We weren't friends, Maria. I made sure of that. And we weren't anything else, either; I made sure of that, too. It was bad enough to drag you into all the alien stuff. You didn't need to deal with everything else, too." 

"With what?" she asked, her voice steady. 

"Maria, I--" he began. His throat tightened. "Nothing." 

"With what?" she repeated. "Michael, you may have thought we weren't friends, but I didn't. I didn't ever want that. And even if we weren't, that doesn't change where we are now." 

"We aren't anything now," he bit out. 

"That's your choice, pally, not mine." 

He closed his eyes against the sharp pain that struck him at her words. It wasn't a choice; he didn't have a choice. He'd been running, shutting himself off for so long that he didn't know any other way to be. 

"So if I bare my soul to you, you think that makes us friends?" He could hear his own bitterness, but couldn't escape it. 

She took in a breath of air, almost a gasp. "No, Michael. You don't have to tell me anything. We are friends. Maybe not in-each-other's-pockets best friends," she added wryly, "but still friends." 

Michael could actually feel the warm tide of relief spread over him. Without stopping to think, he blurted, "When he was drunk, Hank used to hit me." 

His statement lay flatly in the air, bald and ugly. She didn't speak, didn't even move, and for the first time he found it possible to go on. To admit it, out loud, to himself. "The last time it happened, Max found out about it. He and Isabel came over, and Hank was there working on another bender and he pulled out his shotgun and I...I lost it. I used my powers in front of him, or at least I tried, and he found out what a freak I really am." He swallowed, hard. "Hank sucked, but he was all I had, and then that was gone. I couldn't handle it, so...I left." 

There was silence, as if she was considering his words. "I get it." 

"What?" 

"I said I get it," Maria repeated. "I'm not sure I would have then, but I do now." 

Michael ran a hand through his hair. "That's great, 'cause I'm not sure I do anymore." He glanced at her for the first time since his confession; she smiled a little ruefully and nodded. Suddenly feeling sheepish, he scratched at his eyebrow. "So...what now?" 

"Are you hungry?" she asked unexpectedly. 

"What? Yeah, I guess." 

"So now I'd like to buy my friend some breakfast." 

Somewhere, buried deep inside him, Michael's heart gave a lurch. "I drove through here a couple of years ago. 'Bout twenty miles up the road, there's a diner with pretty decent food." 

"A diner, huh?" 

"Yeah, well, it's no Crashdown, but it'll do. The waitresses don't completely suck." 

She smiled again, and slid from the picnic table. "Shall we?" 

Rising, Michael hesitated, and then reached for her hand. Her fingers closed around his, and he held on to her like the lifeline he somehow suspected she was. "Yeah," he said hoarsely. "Let's." 

Hand in hand, they crossed the gravel to their vehicles. They didn't bother to take a last glance at the scenic view behind them. They only wanted to--needed to--look ahead.  
  
~~~~~  


_Oh, I gave it all for you.  
I gave it all for you by my side once more.  
Oh, I gave it all for you.  
I gave it 'cause it's harder to touch  
the things that are dearer.  
I love you too much  
to trust something clearer.  
I know I fell too far...  
But here you are._

A moment later, a small convoy of two pulled out of the tiny parking lot, the motorcycle in the lead. It wasn't long, however, before it dropped back to pace the Jetta, and the two vehicles continued down the highway, side by side.  
  
  
**The End**   



End file.
